The Great Carraway (Life After Gatsby)
by Penny Aime
Summary: About 10 years have passed after the untimely death of Jay Gatsby. The facade of the Jazz Age and the Roaring Twenties has come to an abrupt halt, and Nick Carraway tries to live on through the Great Depression without Gatsby by his side.


**The Great Carraway (Life After Gatsby)**

A few years passed, and I still found myself wandering through Gatsby's yard, remembering the lavish parties and the man who once lived inside the now deserted house. The once brightly lit windows were now dark and bleak, clouded with dust and an indescribable feeling of desertion. I would glance into the empty rooms and could almost hear the Charleston blasting in my ears, could almost see the people dancing and falling over each other slobbering drunk. Then, there was Gatsby. He never drank. He would stand in the corner of his own house, his own party, silently observing it all. I remember thinking once that people who didn't drink always had a great advantage over those who did. They could watch and observe without ever stepping on the inside. Gatsby had managed what many people cannot even begin to fathom-to be around it, above it, but never inside it. The thought of the house being full and warm made me feel even more hollow inside.

I had not realized what a large part of my life Gatsby had been. Most of the time that I had known him he had been a name, a figment, an address. Then, with an invitation and an introduction, he became intertwined into my life-tangled in such a complex knot that his death seemed to leave an empty hole in an already imperfect fabric. When he left, I lost touch with everyone that I knew. I hadn't seen Jordan since she met with me to tell me that she was engaged to another man. It wasn't as cruel as it may sound to the uninformed ear. I very much enjoyed her company, but I didn't love her. It would not have lasted, regardless of Gatsby. I hadn't seen Tom after one day I ran into him in the street. I hadn't seen Daisy since the incident occurred. Not that I really wanted to anyway.

None of them had come to Gatsby's funeral. That action, or lack thereof, rooted with me a sort of resentment towards them which has been fostered deep within me to this day. It's truly illogical. I wouldn't have expected them to come, considering the circumstances, but what about the people at the parties- the people who talked about him as if they were social elites looking down upon him from some god-given place of superiority? They spread rumor after rumor about him, taking advantage of his services, but not one came to the funeral. Maybe it was because I could count them- Daisy, Tom, and Jordan- in the crowd of those who didn't care that I didn't find joy in the thought of giving them a call.

It's been nine years since Gatsby died. The servants left the house, and it just stood there, untouched by everyone else. Whether that be because no one wanted to come too close to the place where the murder was committed or that no one wanted to believe that Gatsby was really a person I didn't know. He was someone after all. Someone they knew without knowing. Someone who lived and died. After he died, my whole world seemed to shut down. Not just for me, for everyone. The world seemed to slow down, becoming an endless ritual of waking up, wandering around Gatsby's property for a time, and then returning to my house to sleep. I had quit the bond business for I couldn't motivate myself to go to the city for work every day. Instead, I decided to pursue writing, sending letters to the paper when I got a chance. I was pretty good so they paid me well for it. I was lucky that I got out when I did. About two years back the stock market crashed. I managed to stay relatively on my feet. I hadn't been into the city often so I didn't know how bad things had gotten, even at this point. I remained within myself, within my small pond of what I knew.

The sun had begun to set behind the tips of the trees surrounding Gatsby's house, casting a vibrant orange-pink light over the landscape. I proceeded to walk down Gatsby's driveway. Just as I was about to turn around the bend to get to my house, I saw out of the corner of my a small figure walking up the dusty white steps leading to the front door. No one had been by this house except for me for the past nine years. Running quickly around the corner, I looked to see who this strange person could be. I got to the pathway right in front of the steps. I stood there, shocked. I knew this small, dirty, frail-looking person. She did not hear me. The eagerness to ensure that I was right outweighed my concern for possible embarrassment. With a deep breath I spoke.

"Daisy?"

She snapped her neck around sharply, to catch a look at the person who disturbed her. It was definitely Daisy. If I had seen her anywhere but here, on Gatsby's front stoop, I doubt I would have recognized her. She wore a large, dirty, forrest green jacket. Her matted hair was cast up in a careless, messy bun. It might have been just the overbearing size of the green jacket, but she looked as if she had lost weight. She looked frail, weak, old.

"Nick!" she breathlessly spoke. Only then did I take notice of the white lily in her hand and the single tear trickling softly down her face. She looked frazzled and worried, nothing like the carefree, young Daisy I thought I knew. She gazed into my eyes for a second, eyes welling up with even more tears. She ran to me and wrapped her arms around my neck, tears streaming down her face. I was hesitant to give her what she wanted. It had been nine years. I had avoided penetrating the walls of Gatsby's house for nine years. However good my intentions may have been to go and clear out the house had been, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Every day it seemed as if the walls of the house grew harder and higher, warding off trespassers. It also may have come from an irrational feeling that it, if I went inside, I would find, or at least feel the presence of, Gatsby; however, I could tell that no amount of external comforting would appease Daisy.

"Why don't we take this inside?" Daisy nodded as she looked sheepishly into my eyes. I proceeded up the steps and placed my hand on the big brass handles. The door swung open with a large creak. The sunset from the outside trickled softly in from the newly opened door. I froze for just a moment in the doorway. Everything was the same. Nothing had moved; however, I don't know who would have moved it. Without my brain's consent, my legs took me inside the house, Daisy meekly scampering behind me. With what seemed to be no thought at all she hurried in and sat down on a large recliner. That was just like the old Daisy that I knew. She didn't care who had been where. She just wanted a seat.

I, unlike Daisy, was not so easy going. I uneasily circled the room, examining every inch of it, searching for something new, something that had changed, but nothing had. Gatsby was gone. Gatsby had been gone; yet, the house continued to remain. With that thought, the empty, hollow feeling returned to the pit of my stomach. I tentatively took a seat on the couch across from Daisy who was looking down at the flower that now lay across her lap.

"How has life been going, Daisy?"

With a seemingly forced smile Daisy said "It's been going. And yourself?"

"The same." There was a brief pause as we let what we knew the next question was linger in the air. Daisy knew what was coming and was bracing herself to give the answer. I desperately wanted to ask the question, but the smallest inkling of social manners that had not left me after my nine years in near solitude tugged at me, telling me it would not be right. My will and last ounce of social skills gave way to the curiosity that tugged on me.

"Why are you here, Daisy?"

As soon as I asked this question, I realized that it was a mistake. We both could tell why she was here. Why did I want to hear her say it? Was it some matter of pride? Was I craving a sort of passive revenge? For what? For lack of empathy towards another person? Regardless, I knew I had been, too harsh. Daisy looked so-weak.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No. No, it's alright. I wouldn't really expect much else." She took a deep breath and glanced down at the white lily again. "They say it's never too late to repent for your sins- to show your respect."

There was a brief pause as she looked blankly out the window. An awkward tension grew in the air which was doubled by the already emotional setting of our catching up. As I found my mind starting to drift to thoughts of Gatsby, I hastily searched for a way to break the silence.

"How is Tom?"

"I imagine he's well."

" You imagine?"

"I left him about two years back."

Another silence followed, but not an awkward one this time. I was simply processing what I had just heard. She left him. She left Tom. I wasn't exactly certain how to respond.

"I-I'm sorry"

"No. You didn't know. Really it's fine." As if reading my mind she added in her explanation. "When the depression hit, things got bad. We started to loose money, and we lost it fast. Tom sold the house, and we moved into a small, rundown apartment in the area. We went from living eloquently to scrounging to pay for our next meal. Tom was lucky. He got a job, or so he told me he had. He pretended to go off to work every day of the week, from 9 to 5. We managed to live on until one day when Tom was very sick. I got a phone call from a lady named 'Janice'. To make a long story short, I confronted Tom about it, and he didn't deny it. At least, he barely denied it. I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed the keys and drove the car around to calm myself, and I never came back."

We both stared at each other for we knew what had happened last time that Daisy got behind the wheel of a car to calm herself. Just as I was about to open my mouth, Daisy spoke.

"I know it was her that I hit. Myrtle, I mean. I know that she was the one who used to be Tom's...well...you know. Don't deny that you knew that! I know that you did!"

I shook my head. There was no denying that I knew that, and Daisy knew that.

"I asked Tom one day why that girl had stopped calling. He told me that she died. He told me that Gatsby killed her, which really meant..." Daisy covered her face in her hands and began to sob. She looked up, still crying. Through her tears she said, "Nick, what did I do? What happened to me? What happened to life? Life used to be filled with dancing, money, happiness. All of a sudden I look around. I look at my life, at what's become of me. I'm alone. Completely alone in a world full of people. I'm broke and responsible for the death of three people, Nick! I KILLED three people. I killed the woman who loved my husband, and I prompted a man to kill himself, since he loved the woman I killed, and kill the man that I love because he was falsely accused of committing my crimes. I MURDERED love, Nick! I'm a MURDERER!"

One of the oddest feelings in the world is the feeling you get when you don't know how to react. I couldn't say that what she said was untrue, but my growing sympathy towards her wanted me to console her in such a way where she no longer believed it. Wiping the tears away from her face she looked up at me. Luckily she spoke while I was still searching for the right thing to say.

"I'm not looking for sympathy. Don't worry. I know that everything that I said was true. I've been living with it-having it haunt me every place I turn. I thought maybe if I came here, said what I left unsaid, maybe I could be free, for even just a second."

This comment struck me the wrong way. "So you're here at the grave of a man you once loved... to clear your own conscience?" I saw in Daisy's eyes that this comment stung her, but I kept going. "You let this man take the blame for you, you let this man lose his life for you, and you come back here nine years later in a last hasty attempt to wipe your own conscience clean?" I could see in Daisy's eyes that my comment had stung her, but I didn't even care.

"That's not what I meant-"

"That's not what you meant? Then what did you mean? And why are you only acting now? Did you need to give it nine years for the guilt to eat away at you inside to the point where you decided that maybe giving his house a visit would clear your own conscience?!"

"I cared about him, Nick!"

"If you cared about him you have been at his funeral with me and the two other people who seemed to care!"

"I loved him, Nick!"

With this I leaned back in my chair, cooling down from my rampage. I wanted to tell her that I didn't mean all that, that not all that anger was directed at her. She was, however, the closest thing I had to scolding everyone else who knew him so I let the feeling of simmering anger and energy disperse into the air.

"I always loved him," Daisy continued, "even when I was married to Tom. I wasn't kidding what I said all those years back. I did love Tom at one point, but at that point in time I still loved Gatsby. Even after my love for Tom faded I loved Gatsby."

"Then why didn't you marry him. You had so many chances through his life. You can't say he wouldn't have wanted to. We both know that was untrue. If he didn't want to he would still be here."

"I thought I was going with what was safe, what was stable. I didn't want to be a person who didn't know what they were doing. I wanted security. I needed security. I wanted someone who could provide for me. Someone that I knew would be a constant as the sun. Someone who wouldn't keep me on edge. At the time I thought that Tom could do what Gatsby couldn't. Tom had a set life. He had money. He appeared to have a lifestyle that wasn't fickle, wasn't affected by anything that happened in the world around him. Before I married Tom, I knew Gatsby couldn't support me. He has so little money, and he was always moving around. You also know he wasn't the most upstanding of characters. He became rich by being a bootlegger. His money came from breaking the law. I thought I would never have a resting moment where I could sit back and think to myself that everything would be fine; I guess looking back, I made the wrong choice."

She took my silence as sort of unspoken agreement to what she was saying. She continued to talk, but it seemed as if she was talking more to herself than she was to me.

"I mean, look at me. What I thought was going to be stability ended me up this way. My fear was that I would end up in a life where I had to figure out how to ration our money. Instead, I ended up in one where I have to roam the streets, begging for whatever I can get. The husband that I thought was stable and secure was less than faithful, and the man who I thought would be all over the place never stopped loving me. I never stopped loving him, and I let it slip away. I was so scared of losing a structured, protected life, that I ended up sticking on the path that lead me to become a girl who meanders through the barren streets at night, searching for cheap food." She paused for a moment, and then looked up at me again. "I'm sorry. I can tell I've talked a bit too much. I get few chances to talk theses days."

"Don't worry about it. Would you like me to put your flower on the mantel?"

She shook her head yes. Obediently I got up, took the flower from her, and placed it on top of the fireplace mantel. On the mantel there was a picture of Gatsby and his father standing by some trees and a lake. They both looked so young, so happy. I became so absorbed in the picture that when Daisy spoke it startled me.

"How about you? How have you been?"

"I've been well. I haven't been out much. How bad is it?"

"A living nightmare. You really should leave the house once in awhile though. Doesn't it get boring being stuck up in that stuff old house all the time."

I smiled to myself. This sounded just like the old Daisy I knew. The one who loved to have fun and live and could not imagine being in one place for more than two hours.

"I don't know. I've gotten used to it. The solidarity I mean. After everything that happened, being alone suits me."

"You have to let go of what happened. That was nine years ago."

"You didn't let go." I stated indignantly.

"That's different. I spent my years trying to avoid this at any cost. I did everything I could. I ran away from it. Now I'm back here trying yet another time to let go. You've been here since everything happened. You were with Gatsby the day that the gunshot was fired, and you won't let yourself forget it. You need to stop consistently living and reliving the bad times. What happened happened. You can't change the past." I chuckled slightly to myself, but Daisy heard me. "What's so funny?" she demanded.

"That reminded me of a conversation that I once had with Gatsby. I told him that he couldn't change the past. You know what he said to me? 'Why of course you can!'"

At that even Daisy laughed. Before we knew it we were laughing hysterically. The memory was just so vividly Gatsby we couldn't help ourselves. For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel empty. It felt as if Gatsby was with us, but not in a cold distant way. Rather, he was among us but beyond us-in our laughter, in our joy, in our every move.

Eventually our laughter subsided and the cold began to once again creep into the room. The light from the sunset had gone down significantly, and I found myself looking at Daisy's shadowy outline, no longer able to define the features of her face.

"I'm glad that I ran into you, Nick," she said, breaking the silence.

"As am I . It was a nice deviation from my usual daily ritual. If you ever want to stop by again, by all means."

Daisy smiled her familiar, vibrant smile. While the rest of her seemed to have become dirty and dark, Daisy's smile remained vibrant enough to light up a room.

"I will indeed. I best be going now. It was great to see you, Nick."

She gave me a hug and kissed me on the cheek. She went to walk towards the door. When she put her hand on the door handle I called out to her.

"Daisy!" She turned around, and then I realized that I wasn't exactly certain as to how to approach this question. "Where...where are you going?"

Daisy looked a little shocked and confused by the question. Then, understanding crossed her face. She replied shyly, "I don't know."

"Where do you stay? Where do you live now? How did you get here?"

I realized that I was bombarding her with questions, but she didn't seem to really mind.

"I walked here."

"From where."

"I don't even remember. I'm always moving. Here there. Any cheap hotel I can find. I've been out on a park bench once or twice. It's kind of relaxing in the summer. In the winter though, it's a bit less than pleasant."

Daisy's weak attempt at humor confirmed what I had thought, but just to be sure, I asked, "Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?"

Daisy looked down and shook her head no.

"Would you like to come stay with me for a while?"

Daisy jerked her head up. Her eyes were alive with excitement. She realized this and tried to control her emotions.

"No, really! You don't have to! I don't want to impose."

"Consider it a favor. I need to get out of my old routine."

Daisy smiled a smile that lit up the house, even in the fading light. We walked out of Gatsby's house, closing the door behind us. I looked back at the house as we left. It seemed as if now there was a sort of new life surrounding it. A new, warm life. Not a life filled with parties with snobby guests. Not a life with money, security, and practical love, but a life filled with excitement, warmth, and living everyday as if, despite the great words of Gatsby, you could not relive the past. Without even meaning to, Gatsby showed me how to live, through his life and through his death. As I got to the front door of my house with my cousin Daisy trailing right behind me, I felt the fabric of my life gradually start to sew and tie and knit itself back together again.

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.


End file.
